


oh, down to the river

by floweryfran



Series: and i knew for sure (i was loved) [4]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angry Peter Parker, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark-centric, i wrote too much funny stuff back to back, no funnies in this one boys, now Emotions return, they WERE NOT on a break, tony says so and tonys word is law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23929687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: “Hey—hey, it’s just me,” Tony says, hovering in the doorway, immediately contrite when Peter jumps about a foot into the air, his desk chair creaking under him.There’s something in Peter’s gaze, immediately, that Tony despises. Down to the dusty cockles of himself. It’s entirely wrong on the kid’s face, like when people draw eyebrows on their dog.His eyes are drooping, red-rimmed, glassy. His lips, turned down at the corners. Where he usually has a healthy, kiddish flush on his cheeks, he’s sallow. It looks like some bastard took a curly straw and sucked out all thePeterparts of him. Left him an empty shell.It fucking sucks to look at.or: the definition of the tag "peter parker gets a hug"
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: and i knew for sure (i was loved) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722340
Comments: 39
Kudos: 365





	oh, down to the river

**Author's Note:**

> yes this title is from a bruce spingsteen song - and what about it? i'm from jersey. my blood is made up of a million tiny little bruce springsteens.

“Hey—hey, it’s just me,” Tony says, hovering in the doorway, immediately contrite when Peter jumps about a foot into the air, his desk chair creaking under him.

There’s something in Peter’s gaze, immediately, that Tony despises. Down to the dusty cockles of himself. It’s entirely wrong on the kid’s face, like when people draw eyebrows on their dog. 

His eyes are drooping, red-rimmed, glassy. His lips, turned down at the corners. Where he usually has a healthy, kiddish flush on his cheeks, he’s sallow. It looks like some bastard took a curly straw and sucked out all the  _ Peter _ parts of him. Left him an empty shell. 

It fucking sucks to look at. 

“Hey,” Tony says quietly, again. “What’re you up to?”

“Homework,” Peter says. His voice hardly floats, water-soaked paper dipping beneath the surface of the river.

“Hmm,” Tony says. He nods a little, shoves his hands into his pockets. 

Peter turns back to the paper before him.

Tony stands for a moment longer before giving in, coming into Peter’s room, figuring no biting comment is as good as an invitation, even if unspoken. He glides his fingers over the top of Peter’s rumpled comforter, sidles around the corner of the mattress, and sits himself up against the headboard, legs straight out and crossed. He thumps his head back against the headboard. Takes Peter’s obnoxious frog pillow pet and holds it to his chest. 

It smells like him. It’s funny how kids carry this strange, undefinable stink on them. Peter’s is like the cold wind that whispers between glass high rises, clementine pith and how it lingers on fingertips for hours after peeling one, and a little like his skin: something inexplicably Peter. 

Something about the particular combination of smells makes Tony’s chest grow tight and then enormously full in one smooth moment. It’s familiar in the way reliving a memory is familiar. Deja vu to the sweetest degree. It makes him feel at once completely at peace and fondly exasperated. 

Tony doesn’t quite bury his face in the pillow, because that would be some sort of complete rupture of decorum, but he leans his cheek on it. 

They sit in silence for what feels like ages. Just the scratch of Peter’s pencil, the rub of his eraser, the off-tempo beat of Tony’s own heart in his ear. Their breaths, Peter in and Tony out, trading off. 

Until Peter puts the pencil down.

“Tony,” he says tersely.

“Yeah, kid,” Tony says, jumping slightly, feeling as if he’d been asleep. His heart drops and a flush flies to his face. Unnecessarily shaken. Feeling, for a moment, completely unseated. “Yes? Peter.”

Peter doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Why are you in here.”

An accusation more than a question.

Tony sighs heavily, leaning into the pillow. “Dunno, kid. You got any ideas?”

“No.”

Tony stares at Peter’s back. Shoulders tight. Narrow, still lithely muscled, still young and little. He wears an oversized hoodie like a goddamn suit of armor. 

“You’re hurting,” Tony says.

“So?” Peter shoots back. 

“So I don’t think you should ever hurt alone,” Tony says. 

“And?” Peter says.

“I’ll sit here. That way, you won’t be alone.”

Peter’s palms press flat on the top of the desk. “What, you’re saying  _ you, _ for the first time in all of human history, aren’t going to try and fix something? Force yourself into problems that aren’t yours and—tinker?”

Kids have a certain, blunt way of seeing right to the heart of anyone. Picking at the parts that twinge until they bleed. Peter, especially, has a way of doing this when he’s upset, because he’s seen Tony inside and out. Knows him. 

Very few people have been given that right, and every single one uses it against him somehow, sometimes. It’s a part of being, for Tony. He chose the bold little squadron of those he loves carefully enough to make sure they are all willing and able to put him into his place when he needs to be. And sometimes when he doesn’t need to be. But here, now, he thinks Peter has a point.

So he isn’t mad. Isn’t even offended. 

“No,” he says. “I won’t. The thing about experience is it teaches you how to look at a problem and know when it’s too big to handle alone. When you just have to work around it. Do what you can to make it easier.” Tony breathes for a moment. “Sometimes there’s no fixing. There’s just tweaking. Dusting and—mopping, whatever.”

Peter continues to stare at the wall.

Tony sighs again. “If you decide you want me, I’ll be in the living room,” he says quietly. 

He puts Peter’s pillow pet back, gently balanced against the other pillows at the head of the bed, beside the stuffed rabbit he keeps in his room here. Stands, smoothes out the blanket where he’d sat, and goes to walk out. Before he can walk past Peter’s desk, Peter catches his wrist in one small, cold hand and stops him.

He looks at Tony, now. Eyes dry, jaw clenched. 

Tony slips his wrist out of Peter’s grasp and replaces it with his hand. When Peter clings, he lifts his other hand, cupping Peter’s between his two, warming it. He leans against the foot of Peter’s bed and brings the bundle of their hands to his lips, presses a kiss to one of Peter’s fingers where it pokes out awkwardly. Brushes his thumb over Peter’s narrow knuckles.

Tony stares at him, and Peter stares back.

“I wish it hurt,” Peter says softly. 

Tony pretends his heart doesn’t rip to pieces, tracing paper under the tip of a pen. 

“What do you mean, buddy?” Tony asks. Just as quiet. As if they’re afraid to disturb the ghosts.

“It’s just—big and empty,” Peter says nonsensically. “I wish it hurt. That would be better.”

“Better than feeling nothing,” Tony says. He understands. He understands. He wishes Peter didn’t.

Peter gives a single tight nod. 

“Okay,” Tony whispers. “We can work with that, right?”

Peter shrugs.

“I think we can,” Tony says decisively. “I think we can—work with it, work around it, and something will click into place, hm? Fiddle around the problem and find a new solution. Worth a shot. Right? Kid?”

Peter shrugs again.

“Okay,” says Tony. He tugs Peter’s hands a little. “Let’s go sit in the cinema room. We’ll put something on, and we can watch it, or we can  _ pretend _ to watch it and eat enough of those sour gummy worms to give ourselves a stomachache. I’ll even let you drink a soda. You like root beer, right? Ugh, nasty, I never liked that shit. Too sweet. But you can have it, I—give you full permission.”

Peter blinks slowly.

“Any movie requests?” Tony prompts. “We’ve watched Star Wars enough times to give me agita just saying the franchise name, but if that’s the move tonight then that’s what we’ll do, no, ah, no complaints from me. Or we could switch it up, Indiana Jones, still excitement, still adventure, just history instead of science. Or something completely new, like  _ Back to the Future. _ Have you seen that? You must have seen it. We can watch something silly, something Disney. Pixar.  _ Wall-E.  _ That movie is gorgeous, imagine how it’ll look on the big screen we’ve got in there.”

Peter’s head tilts to the side.  _ “Friends,” _ he says.

The one word spreads a soothing balm over the ache in Tony’s chest. “Hey, that works,” he says, summoning some cheerfulness, a smile. “I know how much you love to hate Ross. Fair, very fair, that guy is a dick and also stupid and they were  _ totally not _ on a break.”

“Unagi,” Peter says.

“Unagi,” Tony agrees, nodding solemnly. He tugs Peter’s hand again. “Alright. That’s a plan. Come on, buddy. Blanket? You usually wear one like a cape, right?” Tony drops Peter’s hand reluctantly and grabs the thick grey blanket from the basket in the corner. He raises it aloft. It’s taller than him—certainly longer than Peter. It’ll drag on the floor the whole way downstairs. “Edna Mode wouldn’t condone me knowingly giving a cape to a superhero, but I think this is maybe—just  _ maybe— _ allowed. Just this once.”

Peter doesn’t smile, but his slump lessens. He stands, sweatpants tucked into his socks- because even when aching he’s a goober- and takes the blanket. He drapes it over his shoulders, looks briefly at Tony, and starts walking.

Tony saves a last sweeping glance for Peter’s room before following. He’s been told he can’t fix everything enough times to believe it. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to damn well try.

**Author's Note:**

> another one is going up in approximately 60 seconds and i'll update sarcasm squad tomorrow fkjsfnaajh ive been BOMBARDING you all with content so go check some of it out! begging you to read beedee's and my next brainchild [where peter aids and abets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23918785)
> 
> leave me a cheeky little comment or smth to get me through my zoom calls today !! i need to present my final paper thesis and plan for my performance theory class, for which im writing about my two favorite romeo & juliet movies and the idea of authenticity eajrhaalsjgfl;a death


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